Friday, March 13, 2015

Spuds returns for a week long spring
break. He will be surprised to find that his warped bathroom floor
has been replaced and a new mattress for his bed has been purchased.
A clothing hamper has been placed in the bathroom although I'd be
surprised if either kid will know what to do with it, particularly
when there's a perfectly good floor. I am thrilled that the
appearance of the bedroom is so improved, although for Spuds I
imagine it will just be a tiny blip on the radar. He is sweating this
week as sophomores at his school are expected to complete moderation,
which like declaring a major but way more rigorous. Spuds'
girlfriend will be staying with us. He warns me that the girl has
tattoos and a pierced nostril. I'm OK with tattoos, if they are
artful (unlike my eldest's crude tats which might as well spell out
“I was drunk.”) but I can't look at a nose ring without thinking
about the inner portion being inevitably crusty with dry snot. I
tell Spuds to make her take hers out. He says she can't because it
will close up to which I insensitively respond “Boo hoo hoo.” I
tell him to send me a picture of this girl for my own psychic
preparation. I receive from him a picture of Snoop, from The Wire.

Joe College graduates next month. He
calls and I can tell he's down. He is under pressure to complete all
of his school work. I don't know quite what his post-graduation
plans are and I suspect that he doesn't either. He's lived in the
same dorm for four years, the last dealing, as an RA, with lots of
drama. It's not my place now to make it right, and as confident as I
am that the glib smart lad will land on his feet (even if it's via
his room in our basement for a while) I remember the sense of
obligation to prove yourself and make something of your life that the
diploma confers.

Mount Washington, after nearly two
years of beigeness, is green, thanks to the bit of rain. I round the
bend from the house every morning and there is a giant rock covered
with emerald moss, brilliant in the early sun. The hills are
flecked with lupine and larkspur. I try to take pictures, juggling
Iphone and dog lead but inevitably they suck, failing to capture the
perfection of light and color. I discover tiny streets and ridges
that, even after over twenty years, are new to me. Sometimes I avoid
the school. It reminds me that my days of active and constant
mothering are over and that I've yet to fully conquer the struggle to
find purposeness, post empty nest. Other days it is pleasant to zig
zag through the arriving throngs.

A little girl carries a large and
unidentifiable school project. It is colorful and the base is a
square of real grass. “Did you make that?” She nods shyly.
“That's remarkable,” I blather on. She is mortified that this
strange lady with dark glasses and giant headphones and a whinging
dog (Opie is afraid of children and pretty much her own shadow) is
actually speaking to her in front of her classmates. I can't leave
well enough alone though and desperate to make the interaction more
satisfactory for the child, “I'm sure it will be the best one in
the class.” Though I know from our own experience that the airy
fairy Mount Washington School doesn't put a lot of stock into
competition. The little girl, I'm sure, prays for the concrete to
swallow her, but Dad beams. I too, took a lot of pride in the school
projects that I shepherded, particularly the ones I completed pretty
much by myself without the clumsy kids mucking them up.

A father ushers his son through the
arriving kids. The boy has being crying, his freckled little face a
rictus of tragedy. Perhaps it's a lunch left at home or a canceled
play date. I remember the young child's pendulum swing from grief to
elation. And it used to be that a hug and kiss from Mom or Dad is
enough to make most bad things better. My kids' angst now has so
much more gravitas and they only let me kiss and hug them if I
haven't seen them in a while, and even this is grudging.

As I traipse through Mount Washington,
where I've lived longer than anywhere else in my life. I feel lucky
every day to have landed in this place. My own parents have been
gone now for a long time. I wonder if either ever experienced the
same sweet solitude and satisfaction that grace my morning walks. I
hope so but sadly, suspect not. Despite the contentiousness of my
relationships with Mom and Dad, I still feel their love. My dad is my
work voice. He taught me how to run a business. No one taught him.
My mom is the domestic voice. She taught me to bring a hostess gift
and write a thank- you note.

My kids, gun to heads, write thank-you
notes, using the stamped, addressed stationary I've provided. They
think it's silly and anachronistic. I doubt if it's a habit they'll
maintain when they're further out of my orbit. I've accepted now, at
least to some extent, that both are on their own path now and I will
be less privy to their triumphs and struggles. The days of hugs and
kisses are over. For my birthday, Spuds writes to me that when he is
faced with a dilemma he tries to figure out what I would do. I'm not
sure how prudent this is but somehow it makes up for the surcease of
hugs and kisses.

1 comment:

I miss Spuds leaving notes for me in pencil after I'd arrive late from work at 11 p.m. to a silent house. I miss Leo and I going to SCTV practice, discussing music. But we see them now, growing, and if not the courting, the results of which, entertained at home and in the basement the boys have shared so long. It must be intriguing for them to look at those walls, those posters and CDs (and a few token books) and realize their hidden messages, ones only they carry within them. Thanks for making it such a welcome place for all of us. xxx me and shabbat shalom again.